


No Quiet Find

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Jack returns home after a long day of work, in search of a moment of peace.





	No Quiet Find

It was nearly midnight when Jack let himself into his small bungalow, hanging his hat and coat by the door before heading towards the kitchen. A sandwich was quickly pulled together from the items in his under-stocked icebox; he’d been working all hours and hadn’t had a chance to visit the grocer. He briefly contemplated tea, then decided whiskey was more in order. Even if Miss Fisher had managed to inveigle her way so thoroughly into his associations with the liquor that he’d have no choice but to think of her.

She’d been gone just over a month. There’d been a handful of telegrams, but it seemed inadequate communication when he’d grown accustomed to the click of her heels, her voice, the notes of her perfume lingering in her wake. Still, she’d been optimistic about her journey times, and suspected she’d be back by the end of the month; Jack was slightly less optimistic, knowing her proclivity for trouble, but so long as she returned home…

It was a ridiculous thought, so he shook it off and headed into his small parlour. The house was silent; he’d long ago stopped noticing, but that evening it seemed particularly so. He lit a small fire in the grate, just to take the early spring chill out of the air, and settled into his well-worn leather armchair. There was a book of poetry on the table beside him, the slim volume nearly falling apart; it was as familiar as an old friend, a gift from an uncle when he’d left school to pursue a career in the police force, and he opened it to the page bookmarked with a photograph. He looked at the photo, smiling slightly; he’d not quite been certain, when it had happened, why he’d brought that file home. He was glad for it now, the image of Phryne Fisher playfully posing for the camera a welcome reminder when she was so far away.

The bookmark had been placed by Sonnet 27, and for a moment his brow furrowed--it seemed far too apt for his melancholy mood. A pop from the fire made him jump, and he listened to the house once more--still silent. Pouring himself a whiskey and taking a bite of his sandwich, he began to read.

 

> _Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,_  
>  _The dear repose for limbs with travail tired;_   
>  _But then begins a journey in my head_   
> _To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired._  
>  _For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,_  
>  _Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,_   
> _And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,_  
>  _Looking on darkness which the blind do see._   
> _Save that my soul’s imaginary sight_   
> _Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,_   
> _Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,_   
> _Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new._   
> _Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,_   
> _For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

It was a point of dignity that he’d never gotten quite so hopeless over her; even during their brief estrangement Jack had only rarely been plagued by the memories of the motorcar, a stocking, the loss on her face as he’d withdrawn. It had hurt, of course, and he had no intention of repeating the experience, but his sleep had been undisturbed. He took another bite of his sandwich and flicked forward several pages in search of something more cheerful.

The sandwich and whiskey were both long gone when he finally rose, extinguishing the small fire and carrying his glass and plate into the kitchen to be washed in the morning before heading towards the small bedroom at the back of the house. Moonlight shone through the thin curtains, illuminating a small lump beneath the doona, small huffs and snores disturbing the silence of the room. He smiled softly, pleased to see his suspicions confirmed, and removed his shirt and trousers before slipping beneath the covers. There was a strangled noise of protest from the other side of the bed, and Jack wasn’t entirely certain she was even awake as she found her way to the circle of his arms.

“You have an awfully high opinion of yourself,” he said, kissing the top of her hair and breathing deeply to catch the last hints of her shampoo.

“Hmm?”

“Expecting me to pine away every night just because you’re travelling. At least I presume that was the reason for marking that particular page?”

She chuckled sleepily and drew closer, running a hand up his side and burying her face against his neck.

“Perhaps it was meant to be me,” she replied throatily, “missing you desperately.”

“As if you had a chance.”

“Oh Jack, I always miss you when I’m gone.”

And he missed her, not that he’d admit to such a thing under the circumstances.

“How was your holiday?” he asked instead. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

“Hot,” she replied, “and lovely. I took some photographs.”

“Crime?”

“Only a jewel heist.”

“Yours, or…?”

She laughed, scraping her fingernails across his stomach in reprimand.

“I was an investigator, not a perpetrator.”

“You must admit my suspicions are not entirely unfounded.”

She bit at his shoulder, pressing her body against his; Christ he had missed this when she was gone. Time and experience hadn’t changed that, at least.

“Do you think I’d be foolish enough to admit to criminal enterprises?” she teased. “How long have you been home?”

“An hour or so.”

“It took you this long to come to bed?” she questioned, opening one eye.

He grinned, rolling her atop him and kissing her soundly.

“I knew I’d find no quiet here,” he said. “Not that I’d have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> From Shakespeare's Sonnet 27 ([The No Fear Shakespeare translation](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/sonnets/sonnet_27.html)). I am... not entirely certain why the fic decided to go this direction, but I've learnt not to argue with my subconscious.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Zealous Pilgrimage to Thee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362800) by [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj)




End file.
